Chess
by Stephane Richer
Summary: Her bright pink eyes narrow. Ten minutes in, no moves, and they're already in a sort of stalemate.


Chess

Disclaimer: Don't own.

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Her bright pink eyes narrow. Ten minutes in, no moves, and they're already in a sort of stalemate. There are only so many ways one can open a game of chess—twenty, in fact, and while the first move is definitely important, on its own it doesn't matter all that much. After all, she can win or lose no matter which piece she decides to move in what way. She reaches out a slim hand toward the chess board, but then draws it back. Her lips are pursed.

Across from her, his mouth is firm in its usual smirk. He leans back in his chair, but watches and analyzes her every move. She's almost sweating under his scrutiny, but her back is still straight and she does not shake or quiver.

He's always liked her confidence. Lots of girls want to be the manager for Touou's boys basketball team, for whatever reason—they like basketball but can't play themselves, they want to put something on their college application, they want to meet guys, they're bored. Most of them are cagey and nervous and flirty when they interview. She is razor-sharp and prepared to answer all of his questions, totally self-assured. She's even prepared a portfolio of different strategies she's used and scouting reports on the entire team and every single player trying out this year. On some people, this would seem overeager. With her, it's a simple statement of fact. She does not hide her talents; she is straightforward.

It's in his nature to be at odds with that straightforwardness. He is all about what's underneath (though in a way she is, too—although she scrapes back the covering, and he leaves it and observes it in a half-light and does not reveal too much) and speaks in half-truths and gradual revelations and backhanded compliments. She sees right through all of it and accepts it calmly. She doesn't get nervous or upset. She won't admonish him. She just lets him be and works with that, because she will not gamble with what she does not have.

Her left hand reaches out and grasps the farthest-left pawn, moves it up one space.

"Conservative," he says.

She's clearly picking up on all the undertones of his one word, eyes still narrowed, staring intensely at him. Her serious look is interrupted by the hair in her face. She's combed it, but hasn't washed it this morning, and it just gets out of control sometimes. He's the king of hair-in-the-eyes seriousness, but she has a ways to go. He flicks a pawn near the middle two spaces forward. These moves still have multiple right responses that can get you into a better position.

Basketball is a lot like chess, starting off with the tip-off, with one team on offense and then the other, planning one move in anticipation of another move or two or three, or the whole game. Indeed, he doesn't play basketball anymore but he enjoys chess as a suitable alternative. He can play with the mentality of any game, really, but these are games that are suited to his tastes, with enough time to think but enough pressure to insure that he thinks quickly. And, after all, she can play chess against him, and she does, every Sunday morning after they wake up at his place. Every Sunday morning, they get out the board and chess pieces and play until they've finished. Sometimes, it's less than half an hour long. Sometimes, it takes three or four hours. It always seem so short, regardless.

He's always wanted to play basketball against her, to see who would win at outthinking the other on the court, but she doesn't actually play and refuses point-blank, almost to the point of going out of her way to not touch a basketball. It's probably better off that way, though, because someone able to make split-second decisions and deductions while actually playing would be too scary (at least for most high schoolers) to handle. They're already good (but not good enough; there's no such thing as good enough) as it is. It would be boring if it they just overpowered everyone.

And yet it's hard to imagine where they'd be without her analysis. It's like the first two years of his time in Touou went out the window because she's giving him an overwhelmingly fresh perspective that at the same time is multiple perspectives. In the beginning, she was regularly overloading him with information.

But he can catch up to her way of thinking, is now on her wavelength, has come around to understand her perfect logic. He picks up a bishop and twirls it in his hands, before placing on a new square.

She's falling into his traps, and she knows it, too, but she lets herself be caught, almost. It's as if it's more fun for her to get out of the traps once she's inside rather than to avoid them completely. Except, it seems she's set up a trap of her own, and he's missed a spot and there he goes. She's made her odd sacrifices, and so has he, but her trap encompasses his. She's a red herring, half in and half out of his trap like Houdini who's already unlocked the handcuffs but keeps them on for show.

His fingers grab the top of his black king, and he topples it. It rolls from side to side in front of her rook.

He rubs the back of his neck with the other hand. Her hand reaches out and grasps the one still hovering over the chess board.

Now that the game is over, the real fun can begin (why do they insist upon sticking to this routine? Perhaps because it feels better after you've been holding back for so long). He leans over the table, scattering chess pieces with the open flaps of his sweatshirt and pressing his forehead against hers. Her eyes are opening wider, now. She's blushing, face now darker than her hair. Even now, after they've been dating for several years, the close proximity makes her dizzy.

He licks his lips and she kisses him forcefully, pushing him back across the table. He offers little resistance, knocking even more chess pieces to the ground and to the sides of the table. She climbs up on top of it, kneeling for a few seconds before collapsing into a sort of sitting position because that table is brittle and plastic and cheap.

He stands up, picks her up in his arms, and oh, it's so nice to have her here and close to him like this. She struggles to get down; he places her small feet on the floor and she presses up against him, grinding her hips into his and grinding her tongue onto his and clearly wanting more.

Their passion's burning steadily like hot coals on a fireplace, not explosive but even, as he bites down on her neck and she moans softly and curls her hands around his wrists tightly. This is one of those times he's glad he's got a studio apartment so it's only a short distance to the bed and he picks her up again and carries her there. She reaches out to his face and takes off his glasses, folding them neatly on the bedside table and then carrying on. Just watching how deft her fingers are makes him even more turned on. Her wrists are nimble and flexible, and he places a kiss on the inside of one, and then the other. He licks down the rest of her arm, but has to stop just above her elbow.

Damn these clothes. Her chest is heaving with her heavy breath, and her breasts are pushing at the buttons and the fabric constraining them. He pops the top button open, then the next, all the way down. She sits up so he can get the damn thing off of her, but she leans into his chest and starts undoing the buttons on his shirt with her mouth—where in the hell did she learn to do that? She always manages to surprise him, even though he thinks about all the possible outcomes.

Somehow, with her, he always misses one or two. It's because he's too preoccupied with watching the way she moves and listening to her voice. It's part of being human, being in love, but the rules usually don't apply to him. Of course, they have to somewhere. He runs his hands all over her, shoulders and breasts and ribs and hips and her body is the most interesting thing—his is so angular and square, but she's made of rolling waves and Mobius strips, not straightforward at all.

Soon, they are pantsless too, and even though they'd just done it last night every time there's still something new and exciting about it, something in the sweaty air and the way he can feel her breathing and how his hand feels on her waist and his lips on the underside of her chin and on her breasts and on that spot in her inner thigh. She throws her head back and tenses her shoulders and his hair falls forward and his vision is blurry but it doesn't matter because she's drumming her fingers on his chest and biting his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark and that's the way he likes it.


End file.
